


All bunged up

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Dear Anon... [2]
Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bottom!Wade, But he won't let that stop him, Butt Plugs, Clint has... a little more shame, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, M/M, Peter and Wade are shameless, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Clint takes it upon himself to investigate Deadpool and Spiderman's relationship. He likes what he finds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Dear Anon,**   
>  **Calm down. I will write Wade however I please. And, if you ever care to pick up a Deadpool comic, you will see that he is canonically sexually submissive. Even if he wasn't, this is fandom, and anyone can write whatever they want.**   
>  **Love and hugs,**   
>  **Write_like_an_American**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> ****

Clint’s first clue comes mid-fight.

Clint’s teeth grind, although he doesn’t hear it. His hearing aids are customizable – thank you, StarkTech – and right now they’re honed on the battle. Said battle involves three Doombots, which is bad; Spiderman and Deadpool, which is also bad; and about twenty civilians, which is infinitely worse. There’s too much at stake. Clint can’t be distracted by any sounds but those of the fight unfolding below him. Up to and including a fourth Doombot punting him off his ledge, a tactic that (ironically) isn’t unheard of – but Clint is trying not to think about that.

He breathes in. He breathes out. He breathes in again. He clears his mind and pulls back his bow, muscles bunching under purple sleeves. On the second exhale he lets his arrow fly, windspeed and stabilization calculated through a mix of mental intuition and the StarkTech gadget strapped to his belt.

It pops the second doombot in the skull before it can grab a hostage. The arrowhead cracks. It releases a spurt of liquid nitrogen, freezing the massive robot in place before it can topple backwards and crush the pedestrians scrambling to get off the street below.

It also, conveniently, constructs a makeshift wall between Peter and Wade. Clint blows on his next notched arrow and grins to himself.

Wade waddles over – has he taken a leg-shot? No worries; it’ll heal. He plants his boot square on the doombot’s chest, then squints into the light. The sun’s behind Clint. He selects his sniper’s perches carefully. But Wade takes all of two glances, one to calculate angle and one direction, to place him. He turns his head unerringly in Clint’s direction, uncaring for the rays that highlight every rip in his mask and the grotesque hints of the pudding-face beneath.

“I know, I know; the early bird catches the worm. But that was my kill, Barton!”

Clint fights the urge to facepalm. “Doombots aren’t alive,” he says into his comm, keeping his bowstring taut as the remaining androids take to the air, hovering while they scout his location. “You can’t ‘kill’ them, Deadpool. There’s nothing _to_ kill.”

The plastic nugget tucked behind his hearing aid bubbles with Wilson’s outrage. “Haven’t you seen _Bicentennial Man?_ Or _Blade Runner?_ Or even _Terminator Two?_ Arnie knew love in that. He knew love, dammit! But hey, ethical questions of Artificial Intelligence aside, this is the closest I get to fun stabby murder nowadays. Don’t you take that away from me.”

“Guys, guys, _guys._ ” Peter webs both Doombots and jumps upwards between them, grabbing a overhanging balcony. He uses the Doombots’ propulsion against them. Their plated iron skulls crack with a cymbal-like boom. Peter waves to the family cowering behind the French awning, the very model of a modern major hero, before swinging gracefully to ground level again. “There’s enough to go around. Don’t argue.”

Clint fully expects Wilson to. Wade opens his mouth, a sign that a barrage of blather is on its way.

Then Peter sends him a signal.

Clint can’t spot what it is, other than that it involves Peter brushing his wrist like he’s about to activate a webshooter. He might be long-sighted but he’s not _that_ long-sighed. But whatever trick Peter pulls, it’s effective. Wade’s jaw locks. His long legs fold from under him. If Clint didn’t know better – didn’t know that the big goofball was a damn fearsome opponent when he needed to be, and at least half his stupidity was obfuscating – he might’ve thought Deadpool had collapsed.

Wade controls the motion at the last minute. His thighs shake with the strain, but he lowers himself onto his ass rather than crumpling onto it. He shoots Spidey a vehement middle finger, which has Peter sticking out his tongue in return.

“C’mon, Wilson. Up and at them.”

“Why? You’re doing fine by yourself.” Wilson lounges out, casual as a sunning lion. Who knows? Maybe he’d intended to sit. It’s not _unlike_ Wade to take a siesta mid-battle – Clint’s worked with the man enough to know that the only thing predictable about him is his refusal to be anything but. “This’s quite a show. I’m thinking I should get out the popcorn.”

Peter’s snorts, dealing a devastating kick to one of the Doombots that snaps its arm off at the socket. He catches it with a web before it can sail through the nearest shop window. “You don’t have popcorn.”

“Don’t I?” Wade’s voice sits at a crosshairs between smug and challenging. He squirms over the rubble like a fidgety schoolboy. Yet there’s something consistently _off_ in his movements, like he’s trying to rub an itch on the seat of his pants… “When was the last time you rifled my pouches, Spidey-boy?”

“Uh, how about last night?”

The flirting’s so flippant that it takes Clint a moment to register that it’s inappropriate, and that as the senior Avenger on this team he’s supposed to tell them that now’s not the time. Everyone trades wisecracks and witticisms in a firefight. Especially those who’ve fought besides Tony Stark (and himself, Clint likes to think). It’s only natural that a little coy teasing slips in, when they’ve got the self-proclaimed Billionaire Philanthropist Etcetera Etcetera for a role model. But that doesn’t mean Clint should condone this sort of behavior. Especially not between Spiderman and Deadpool. Wade's too dumb to realize Peter's joking, and Peter's too innocent to realize what a dangerous mire he’s wading into.

Okay, so that's unfair. Peter isn’t much younger than Clint. He’s in his mid-twenties, well past the age when Clint began drinking, driving, fucking, and shooting things. But Clint can’t help but see him as a sort of kid-brother. Maybe it’s his stature; tall but slight, built lithe rather than bulky like the majority of heroes. It’s certainly not his personality. Peter’s as tough and self-sufficient as they come. He’s constantly complaining that the Avengers baby him because of the way he looks, and Clint doesn’t _want_ to fall into that category but…

But dammit, Peter’s flirting with Deadpool. That never ends well.

Clint looses two arrows in quick succession. The Doombots crumple like tenpins before Spiderman can land his finishing blows. Even Deadpool, boots stretched out in front of him and feigning a yawn, looks surprised. Although that’s probably more because he’s sat on something sharp. Clint can’t think of any other explanation for why he jumps up, usual battle-born grace shifting into something more clumsy and desperate, and whimpers – yes, _whimpers_ – into the comm.

“Kids,” growls Clint, hooking his bow over his back. “Time to head. Meet tomorrow for debrief.”

He shouldn’t be worried that Spiderman grabs Deadpool’s arm and steers him away. Buds go home together after battles all the time. Nothing completes an evening like scrubbing bloodstains from your hero gear with a mate over a cracked beer bottle. So why does Clint get the feeling he’s missing something? Or worse – being wilfully oblivious?

There’s only one way to settle this. He’s got to follow them.

***

Peter Parker, photographer and general dogsbody for the _Daily Bugle,_ lived in a ramshackle apartment in Queens’ dingiest district. Spiderman, Avengers frontliner, has an entire floor of Tony Stark’s high-rise: a luxury afforded to every regular on the roster. Clint’s super-sleuthy mind informs him that it’s odd, therefore, that Peter heads for the former.

Then again, dragging Wade Wislon – and the smells of taco, blood, granulating wounds and general gunk that cling to his skin – into a place as swanky as the Avengers’ Tower would be downright embarrassing. In fact dragging Wilson _anywhere_ is embarrassing. Heck, Clint had pretended not to know Wade last time they’d worked together in public. And he’s not even guilty about it!

Because at the end of the day, ‘Deadpool’ is synonymous with ‘trouble’. Besides his skills on the Xbox, his ability to snap out one-liners at a higher word-to-minute ratio than Tony, his near-encyclopedic knowledge of New York’s Mexican street vendors; his casual fluency in ASL and the way he always slides his mask half-up when he’s talking to Clint, even on days when he hides every other inch of skin; his gentleness with kids and his evident love for his daughter? If you ignore all that, there’s really not much to like about the guy.

Clint travels by rooftop. Far below, the red-clad duo trail through the busy mid-morning streets, ignored for the most part by the commuters – who only care for superheroes if they’re breaking shit, saving lives, or giving out autographs. Clint tracks them through his goggles. He’s been wearing them for years but has yet to discover all their functions – mostly because Stark keeps upgrading them (the man simply does not understand the concept of ‘if it ain’t broke don’t fix it’). Right now they’re set to infra-red. Wade runs five degrees hotter than a normal person. The vibrant red blip slides across the monitor, occasionally muffled by outgushes of hot air from vents or a thick trail of car exhaust. Despite the fuzzy colors, Clint can tell that Wade’s walking funny. His gait’s stooped, stilted, bow legged like he’s had a knife lodged where the sun doesn’t shine.

Again.

Clint’s eyes roll of their own accord. So long as Wilson doesn’t go begging Peter to yank it out and kiss it better, they won’t have a problem.

But right now, it seems Wade’ll have enough trouble reaching their destination. He clings to Peter’s arm, bulky body somehow diminutive as he hunches and staggers, bumping the slighter hero’s back when they’re jostled by the crowd. Clint’s switched his comm off, according to post-battle courtesy. But now, springing lightly from one rooftop to the next without care for the drop, he can’t help but finger his earpiece. Wade’s not the brightest creature, after all. Well, he’s _smart,_ but smart in the ‘I can build a bomb if you leave me alone with a bit of twine, three sweetie wrappers, and a dead bee’ kinda way, not smart as in ‘I turn off my commlink promptly so fellow heroes don’t get the chance to eavesdrop on my personal life’.

Clint shouldn’t. It’s a breach of privacy. But, he thinks, grappling onto the next roof after judging the gap too far to leap, he’s not doing this out of nosiness. Okay, at least not _all_ out of nosiness. He’s concerned about Peter. And that excuses any descent into the morally grey.

Decision made, Clint snaps on the comm as he makes his run-up for the next jump. Wade’s voice gushes over him: a tide of husk and gravel and desperation. “Petey, _please_ …”

Well, that’s new. Peter is iffy about sharing his secret identity. The biggest blabbermouth on the planet, quite possibly in the galaxy in its entirety, is the last person Clint would expect to make that cut.

“Pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top? Pretty please baked in a bun that would Mary Beery weep with joy?” Wade sounds too breathless for someone who’s not doing anything more strenuous than walking along the street. “Peter. Petey-pie. Baby-boy. C’mon, man. You wanted me to beg, and I’m begging. I can’t keep this up. You gotta stop.”

Peter says something Clint can’t hear – at least _one_ of them cares about security. Deadpool’s answer is a drawn out whine. Clint squints through his visor, trying to make sense of what he’s doing. He seems to be rubbing his legs together, each step smaller and more tremulous than the last. “You’re a sadist, Spidey. You’re like if Loki and Mussolini – no wait; Stalin, he was hotter – had a baby, abandoned that baby, and left it to grow up all alone without any hugs. That’s you.”

Peter replies. It’s probably along the lines of ‘you think Stalin’s hot?’

Wade sniffs primly. It sounds strained. “When he was young! Check him out on google images if you don’t believe me. He’s got that whole ‘roguish revolutionary young academic’ thing going on, like Eddie Redmayne in _Les Mis._ Oh, Eddie Redmayne…” A drawn-out pause; a wistful sigh. “…Not that I’d say _no_ to holding onto Stalin’s handlebar moustache while we did the nasty, but – hey! Hey! Come back, you’re my crutch.”

Clint doesn’t need to hear Peter’s response to guess that Wade’s being told to walk on his own. He sighs, relieved that Peter’s not coddling him. A bit of flirtation’s one thing; misleading Wade into thinking he _cares_ for him, quite another.

***

Peter reaches the apartment almost half an hour before Wade, who’s taken to leaning on the corners of buildings and digging his gloved fingers into his thighs, muttering “move-move-move” as if he can make himself walk through willpower alone. Clint, hanging back to watch the more deranged of the pair – although his confidence in Peter’s sanity has taken a severe dive knowing that Peter trusts Wilson with his identity – tries to convince himself that it means nothing that Wade knows the way.

Once he’s struggled up the steps, Wade bangs on the front door flat-handed, then proceeds to prod Peter’s buzzer to the rhythm of _Land and Hope and Glory_ while he waits. Peter appears, and Clint, crouching under the cover of an overhang on the building opposite, observes with intrigue that his expression is anything but annoyed. In fact it almost looks… proud. And fond. More than fond. Like he’s relishing every moment, as Wade wobbles to stand and rubs his knees together, thigh muscles squeezing and straining. Clint switches the goggles to their magnification setting so he can better observe the interplay of expressions over Peter’s face. But he forgets to adjust where they’re pointed, and for five endless seconds before his brain snaps out of its shock and he lifts his gaze to safe territory, he’s treated to a close up of the Wade Wilson’s pert, clenching ass.

Damn Deadpool, and damn his stupid sexy bubble butt.

Why, if Clint were into dudes – and if Clint didn’t know what lurked beneath that overlay of sleek red fabric; a skin-condition not even a leper would willingly touch – he might be a little turned on right now.

Not because he likes Wilson. But because of the way Peter _handles_ him. He hooks two fingers under Wade’s collar, making the fast high breaths in Clint’s ear stutter to a halt. Then, with a raised eyebrow and a smirk only slightly disguised by his mask, he yanks him inside and slams the door.

The noise of Wilson whimpering traces their passage up the stairs. It’s slow and cumbersome, and it’s obviously Wade who’s holding them up. Clint can’t see through walls – not on this setting anyway – but he can tell by the tone of Peter’s inaudible speech, which is caught between frustrated at Wade’s slowness and amused at his expense, that the younger of the pair is enjoying this. 

Clint’s mind turns that thought over and over without his permission. _Go,_ his instincts scream. _Get outta here, before you see something you regret._ But Clint’s curiosity’s always trumped his self-preservation. He slinks to crouch at the opposite end of the balcony, and kneels so he can peer into the single lit window that must be Peter’s room.

The door clicks off the latch. Then swings violently in, Wade all but pinned to it. Peter spins him so they’re face to face and then – with an ease so casual even Clint, who’s seen the kid work his spider-strength a hundred-odd times, can’t help but stare – hoists the muscle-bound merc to perch on his hips.

Wade wraps his legs around Peter’s slim waist. Arches his back until he’s supported only by Peter, showing off how ridiculously, disgustingly flexible he is, and moans at the flickering bare bulb with uninhibited lust.

Everything about Peter’s apartment is dingy and sordid, seedy as a nightclub near the end of its lifespan. It’s the perfect place for something like this. Peter and Wade think they’re alone. They’re completely free with one another, like wolves mating in the wild, brazen and shameless. Peter gropes Wade hard enough to leave bruises that will flower for a whole minute before fading. He palms and squeezes that perfect plump ass like it’s a stressball, while Wade digs his blunt fingertips into Peter’s back as if he’s trying to claw out his heart from behind.

And Clint, for the life of him, can’t work out why he has yet to leave.

Wade’s reverent mantra ranges from the explicit (“Spidey, oh God, I want you inside me, I need to feel your cum drip out my hole Baby Boy, don’t make me beg no more”) to the nonsensical (“Wanna feel that big fat hotdog fucking my buns… Mm. Did you know spiders don’t have dicks? Are you gonna rub your spunk on your pedipalps and have your wicked way with me?”) It’s almost as hilarious as it’s disturbing. Clint’s trapped, watching a car crash in slow motion, as Peter bites Wade’s lip to shut him up and carries him to the mattress.

He barges the bedside table on the way – or Wade kicks it. A glass drops. Clint notices more than they do, though he can barely hear the faint tinkle and crunch of shards under Peter’s feet. It’s the perfect cue. He’s jolted from the shock-induced reverie. The realization of what he’s seeing – and what he’s _doing,_ acting the voyeur on a couple who have no idea that they’re being watched – smacks harder than a doombot’s blast to the chest.

Gasping, Clint flicks off the comm. He sits there in silence, blinking as if trying to rinse the imprint from his corneas: the sight of Peter dropping Wade onto the bed, uncaring of the stuffing that poufs from the holes in the mattress; Peter rolling the groaning merc roughly onto his stomach and digging out the zip from under his collar; Peter rasping it sharply down.

Peter and Wade.

_Peter and Wade._

Once his heart rate’s settled, pulse no longer thundering louder than the Quinjet engines, Clint allows his face to unscrunch. His eyelids peel apart. With a shaking hand, he removes the goggles – only long enough to rub sweat from his forehead. Then he snaps the rubber headpiece back into place. He fiddles with the lenses until they bring the bare scarred body on the mattress into focus, sharp as if it’s etched on a diamond. And finally, with trembling fingers, he paws at his hearing aid until he finds the comm button.

Wade writhes against the grubby sheet. He’s arranged himself strangely, legs plastered together and hands stretched behind him, covering his crack like he’s been overcome with a sudden burst of modesty. Clint snorts to himself. Wilson, shy? Impossible.

Wade shudders as Peter grips his wrist, squeezing just hard enough to insinuate that he could wrench his hands away and pin him if the desire took hold. He lets the younger man peel his hands away. When Peter positions them instead on Wade’s buttocks, one for each supple cheek, and urges him to tug them apart and put himself on display, Wade catches the corner of a pillowcase in his mouth to disguise the keen.

Peter leans over his back. He strokes the long scarred streak of his spine, fingers questing out divots and bones and half-raw sores with no repugnance. Then cups Wade’s jaw and applies pressure until he spits the pillowcase out.

“Loud,” he purrs. Clint jumps. Wade must’ve nudged Peter’s comm, turned it on by mistake… “I want to hear you. I want that beautiful voice crying out my name.”

Wade obeys. And, when Peter steps away, giving Clint a clear view of what Wilson was trying to hide, the reason he’s been waddling about all day and jerking about whenever he sits down, Clint almost matches him in volume.

It’s a plug. A bright red one. It looks indescribably _right,_ in the eternally modulating ocean of scars and cracks that transform Wilson’s skin into a flesh-and-blood lava flow. Wade, laying on his crumpled costume, lifts his ass like a bitch presenting itself in the breeding ring. He tugs on his cheeks, rim stretching and flexing out of itself in a taut pink circle. Clint’s hand steals for the growing pressure in his cup as the flared end of the plug bobs and shifts, moved by the fluttering muscles inside.

When Peter presses his wrist besides his web shooter, Wade’s arch intensifies to the point where a lesser man’s spine might’ve broken. He twitches head to toe. Clint’s goggles inform him that a charge just ignited, buried in Wade’s core, and the spasms as Peter keeps the button pressed for ten long torturous seconds confirms it.

“Take it out,” Wade begs, once Peter releases it and he can breathe again. “Spidey, c’mon. You’ve been poking about with that damn shock function all day; my prostate’s toastier than a hot cross bun.”

His voice croaks hoarser than Clint’s ever heard it. He rubs his face on the pillows, body in constant motion, squirming as his healing factor processes the misfires from his freshly zapped nerves. The harsh light of the bulb highlights each scar. Yet for once, Clint doesn’t have to fight the urge to vomit. There’s something otherworldly about Wilson’s ugliness. Something disconcerting and alien, as disgusting as its alluring…

For an instant, as Peter strokes Wade’s straining rim and the mercenary chokes on a sob, Clint imagines himself in Spiderman’s place.

That’s all the encouragement his hand requires.

Before Clint knows what’s going on, he’s popped the access-plate on the front of his suit – a necessity for all costumed heroes; never know when you might need a bathroom break in a hurry, and the _Daily Bugle_ would have a field day if a photographer caught an Avenger fighting in wet pants. He fishes out his fully firmed cock. His hand is calloused to the shape of his bow. It scrapes blood-bloated flesh, chipped fingernails tangling in his pubes just the way he likes it, and Clint has to bite his other forearm to stifle the moan.

Opposite, Peter sets a single finger – just one finger – against the base of the plug. He gives it a good hard twizzle. It drives it so far into Wade’s body that the head must be bumping his pubic bone. The flared base actually looks in danger of slipping inside. Clint wonders what they’d do if the toy got lost. Then reminds himself that Wade has a healing factor and a high pain threshold, and is pretty damn nifty with his katanas.

Wade’s thighs clamp, shins dragging the coverlets into tiny fold-mountains. He makes to lower his hips. Anything to escape that cruel pressure… But Peter has other plans. He grips Wade’s hip, not so hard that the bone creaks but certainly more than enough to be inescapable. And then, pinning Wade in place with his stuffed ass on show, he shifts to one side – almost as if he’s giving Clint the perfect view – and deals Wade a cracking spank.

Then another. Then another. Then another and another, until what little hearing Clint has left rings ablaze with the snap of gloved hands on flesh.

Peter aims low. His first blows hit the back of Wade’s thighs. When that only gets him muffled whinges, he forces them apart and slaps between, shifting his other hand to grip Wade’s neck. He holds him face down while he brutalizes Wade’s lower body with the clinical precision of a scientist. It doesn’t take long for Clint to master the rhythm. He jerks himself to it, rough and sloppy, sucking air through his teeth whenever a bowstring-callous catches. Peter beats Wade’s thighs, then his buttocks, then his lower back. He hits fast but not light. Each impact jars Wade forwards towards the headboard, and he struggles to correct his position before the next one lands. The clapping echoes through the commlink. Clint suspects he’d hear it even if he took his recievers out. Maybe his hearing aids too.

And wouldn’t that be perfect, if the police show up on a routine noise complaint to find New York City’s favorite hero beating their most infamous’s ass until it’s black-and-blue?

Not that Wade’s healing factor allows for such a thing. His skin bleeds red, sometimes literally when Peter catches a scar ridge. But he heals as quickly as he’s hurt. Clint spits into the space between his hands, peeling the foreskin from his cockhead so the warm dribble kisses his tip. He strokes himself to the thought of Wade being kept like this, an unbreakable sex toy. And he knows it’s wrong and he knows it’s disgusting, and he knows it’s exactly the sort of thing he would dedicate his life to eradicating in the world. But it’s also a fantasy, and every man needs to indulge them once in a while.

In the end, Clint comes before Wade – but only just.

Their scene finishes with Peter sitting with his back to the headboard, still fully clothed. He pulls the mercenary across his lap. From Wade’s horny pants, he can feel the erection digging into his stomach.

“Puh-puh-please sir, Mr Bumble sir, can I have some more…” His words crackle and jolt with each smack. The goggles register a static pulse, pushed into Wade’s ass whenever the button on Peter’s wrist crimps at the nadir of his swing. Fuck. Clint can’t last much longer…

Peter ducks, pressing a kiss to the back of Wade’s bald head even as swats up in tempo. His lips linger there as he builds to a climax; a fanfare of blows that crescendo like a roll on the snares. The last lands directly on the plug. Clint, switching to X-ray vision at the last second, watches that long thick rod bounce in Wade’s channel and comes in a messy splurt over his loincloth.

Damn. White-on-purple. That’s gonna stain.

Clint drops onto his back. He’s already broken several laws, not to mention the half-million codes of social conduct he waived when he first decided to spy on his colleagues. His junior colleagues, at that. He can’t bring himself to watch as Wade shudders and shakes and paints Peter’s lap with musky cream. Not even as Peter eases out the plug, rolling the mercenary onto his back, liquid and limp as a sleepy cat. He doesn’t hang around as Peter frees his own cock – which must be aching by now – and slides slowly in, not giving Wade time to tighten. He doesn’t see them kiss, or Peter dabble around Wade’s spent prick, smearing what he can scoop onto the join between their bodies to ease the way.

He definitely doesn’t see the pair of them break apart and catch each other grinning. By then he’s righted himself, best he can, and is halfway home.

The comm won’t go out of range, even if Clint has a post-orgasmic freak out and flees to the Himalayas. But beyond the static humming in his brain, he hears the familiar _click_ that means they've turned theirs off. Both at the same time, too synchronized to be coincidental.

“Aw fuck,” he says.

***

Drool smears Wade’s chin. He peels his face from where it’s stuck to Peter’s shoulder, nodding at the window. “Think he liked it?” he asks.

Peter concentrates on feeding his cock into Wade. He moves smooth and slow, a counterpoint to his earlier ruthlessness. Wade loves being used roughly. He always says it's because his scars make him desensitized to pleasure, but Peter's had him almost-peeing just from tickling his feet, so he suspects the true cause lays deeper in the convoluted onion layers of Wade's psyche. Peter knows better than to hazard guesses about what that cause might be. For one, Wade wouldn't thank him for it - he's had enough shrinks psychoanalyzing him for a lifetime.

But Peter's always had more of a penchant for softness. He'll be as cruel as Wade needs him to be, but it's these moments he treasures: when it's just the pair of them, the stink of sex, and the warm afterglow. And the gentle squelch of lube as Peter grinds in deep, keeping Wade full and sated.

The mercenary’s ass is always virgin tight. But it can be coaxed into stretchy compliance with embarrassing ease. Rather than answering the question, Peter rolls so that they’re on their sides, Wade’s calf muscle bulging where it hooks over Peter’s arm.

“Would you warm my cock at a debrief, if I gave the order?” he breathes into Wade’s mouth.

The pleased purr is all the confirmation Peter needs. He clutches him, sandwiching their lower bodies together until his cockroot grazes Wade’s hairless perineum. They’re a single being like this, and everything is mellow and smooth and perfect. Even Wade’s scars have been tempered. They swirl and glide under his skin, surging to Peter’s touch. Peter uses his fingertips as paintbrushes. He digs in until a whorl of scar tissue rises around them, then drags them in swooping lines along Wade’s muscular flank, scars following the pressure, sketching murals across his favorite canvas.

“How did you realize he was following us?” he asks. Wade yawns, nuzzling the soft hairs that blanket Peter’s crown. Peter’s thrusts are more slow rocks; he wouldn’t begrudge the mercenary if he fell asleep right now. Wade's been wearing that plug since first light. Even for the regenerating degenerate, this has been a long and harrowing day.

“Fourth wall, Spidey. Never underestimate its use as a convenient cop-out from having to plot.”

Peter has no idea what to say to that. Luckily he doesn’t have to think of anything. Wade hums, snuggling his bulky body down onto Peter’s prick. He hooks his leg over his smaller partner’s waist, clamping him in place. “Speaking of debriefs… D’you think Clint’ll behave himself tomorrow?”

Peter mulls the question as much as he can while his cock is sandwiched in tight soft velvet. “I think,” he says slowly, pelvis clonking Wade’s as they rock together, “that ‘de-brief’ is a word with many meanings.” He shoots a pointed look to his own boxers, which hang from the bulb like a makeshift lampshade, and gathers Wade’s big warm hands in his own. His breath breaks across the rough skin of Wade's knuckles, and he intersperses each word with a kiss. “Let’s hope Clint takes it literally.”

**Author's Note:**

> **Part 2 of my 'Dear Anon' series! Do tell me what you think; I love to chat to you guys.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Y'know, so long as you don't leave me anonymous hate-messages. I don't ask for much. :Shrugs:**
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> 


End file.
